Spring better hurry the hell up

By Nate Adams
Collegian Editor
April 16, 2008

Maybe it’s the hateful old man in me, but I’ve never really been a big fan of the spring time.

My distrust of March through May isn’t completely unfounded, mind you. For one, nature’s jerk, the bumblebee, is back in my life again, an angry flying missile that knows only blind rage and desire to drive it’s dagger into my waiting flesh.

The movement of the earth closer to the sun means that I am way more likely to get my pasty ass sunburned. In fact, that is exactly what happened when I engaged in a friendly game of whiffle ball last week with some pals of mine.

That’s another thing about spring I don’t get down on; games of whiffle ball. Now, don’t misunderstand, I enjoy lawn sports as much as the next guy. Get me a Frisbee and I’m as happy as a clam. Hell, set up a badminton net someplace and I’ll be there all day, whacking the shuttlecock to and fro.

But since the dawn of my existence, I’ve been a miserable baseball player, and seeing as whiffle ball is the under-developed runt cousin of the nation’s pastime, I stink at that too.

I can remember being a pudgy faced little fourth grader, lazily picking daffodils in right field, blissfully ignorant of the baseball feet behind me and my coach screaming while the other team racked up an in the park home run. I can remember being a little older and a little rounder, closing my eyes and letting third strike after called third strike fly past my unflinching bat, too petrified of opening my eyes to swing.

At my roundest and most miserable, I can recall standing at first base and watching my coach grab his crotch at third base, giving me the “steal” sign. Which is crappy, because when you’re as heavy as I was, the steal sign was pretty much my coach’s way of saying “Hey Nate, how about you sprint down to second base, only to get tagged out by about 10 feet, humiliating you in front of your teammates and parents?”

Still, all my baseball bitterness aside, I suppose whiffle ball isn’t all bad. Now that I am of legal age to enjoy adult beverages, a low-key game of home run derby with a few buds and a case of Bud sounds like a real fine way to spend a Friday afternoon. And, yes, having the sun out is a nice thing.

Still, between the competitive sports, the angry insects, the harsh mother sun and copious other side effects of the warming months, things like sweating and sweat stains (people, I sweat like no one’s business), spring is definitely not the time for me.

In fact, the only real plus side to spring, in my mind, is that it is once again socially acceptable to eat ice cream. But even that’s out the window, because I’ll wolf down a pint of Ben and Jerry’s any time of the year. I don’t need a calendar to tell me that Phish Food is delicious.

I don’t hold spring against anyone. I’m sure most folks think I’m nuts, and have been loving the hell out of this recent warm snap. Me? I’m going to crank up my AC and get under my covers for a while. Wake me at Thanksgiving.

adamsn1@lasalle.edu